Riziya flared up when she heard Rafiq say that. She got up from the chair she was seated on. She was unconcerned about the fact that a political leader was talking to her, and that she was angry with such a person. She retorted, ‘What exactly do you want to say? I distrust my Mama? I don’t need a single rupee. I’m not selling the land!’

‘There, there! Why are you getting angry? Did I say anything wrong?’

Rafiq Ali was a politician. He realized he should not have said what he did. He had thought Riziya would be just an ordinary girl, that she would yield to a bit of pressure. But she was not like that. She didn’t pay any attention to his placatory words. Addressing Salaam Miya, she asked, ‘Mama, what’s all this an outsider is saying? And why are you silent? Did I ever say that I wanted to claim my share? Tell me? I was orphaned as a child. I grew up in your lap. And he says I distrust you! Let me call Mami here. Let her be the judge.’ Riziya’s voice choked. She felt terribly aggrieved.

Salaam Miya felt very ashamed. He was familiar with such outbursts on Riziya’s part. Once she made up her mind, it was extremely difficult to persuade her. He said, ‘No, no! Don’t be offended by what he said. He oughtn’t to have said that. But he was only trying to be helpful. If you put your signature, it will all be over.’

‘No! I won’t sign. That land should not be sold. It should remain as it is. Are you done? That’s my final word!’

Rahman got annoyed. Was it appropriate for such a chit of a girl to speak in this manner? Did she have any idea about who she was speaking to? He asked her, ‘Do you know anything at all about property matters? You, who were born just yesterday? Why are you so stubborn? If Abba had not been generous enough to include your name, would you have got the land? After all, it had been recorded in the name of the mosque. Changing the record and putting your name down was all a mistake!’

‘Why should it be a mistake? Didn’t the land belong to my Nana? Didn’t my Ma have a share in that? Am I, Riziya, not my mother’s heir? And who knew that it had been recorded in the name of the mosque all these years? Would you have known unless Maruf Bhai found out?’

Rafiq Ali was dumbfounded. All this while, he had been trying to think of someone who could convince this girl. So that she would agree. Could that person be Maruf? Maybe. Young people tended to have a weakness for particular people, who were dearer to them than even their parents. So could Maruf … Be that as it may. As long as the land was obtained. He could try that out. Rafiq Ali flashed a synthetic smile and stood up. Addressing Salaam Miya, he said, ‘All right, Salaam Bhai, I’ll leave now. We’ll discuss it later. I have a lot of work to do.’

Rafiq Ali left in a hurry. But he turned back as he reached the door and said to Riziya, ‘Such arrogance in a girl is not nice, dear. Don’t you have to set up home in another household? It’s nice that you are studying. Just think about the matter some more. We are all in a difficult situation.’

Riziya did not respond, one way or another. She just sat there, with her head lowered.

It was the dead of night. Quite a few people were present in Imam Saheb’s room despite the late hour. What was it about? Had someone been afflicted by a jinn or a ghost? After all, people did come from time to time asking for amulets and so on. But seeing some young men outside the room, Rahmat Bhai, the muezzin, was curious. He couldn’t figure out why Imam Saheb had sent for them. Going closer, he observed that they were the youths who hung around with Rafiq Ali and were with his party. He knew all of them. Peeping inside, he saw that Rafiq Ali was talking to Maulana Tahirul. ‘You see, Hujur, we must proceed carefully. There are many organizations of imams, like yours. Our party wants to bring all the organizations under a single banner and launch a major movement.’

Maulana Tahirul was silent. Rafiq Ali noticed Rahmat Saheb standing at the door. Addressing him politely and courteously, he said, ‘Come, Rahmat Bhai. There’s some good news, dear man. Our party is concerned a lot about you people. We want to provide a dole to imams and muezzins. What has the present government ever done for Muslims? Nothing whatsoever. You don’t even have ration cards for your daughters. Am I not correct?’

Rahmat Saheb was perplexed at first. He had met Rafiq Ali for various purposes over the last five years. But he couldn’t get anything done. He never took the matters seriously. But why had he come forward of his own accord today, and what was he trying to convey? Plucking up courage, Rahmat Saheb responded, ‘I spoke to you so many times about the ration cards, Rafiq Bhai!’

‘I know. You told me many times. Actually, I’m worried about the CPI(M). They are running the state government. It’s only the Panchayat that is in my hands. But do they let you do work properly? A change, however, is coming now. People are flocking to the Trinamool Congress. Look, I know that if Mamata Di becomes the chief minister, all the imams and muezzins in the state will be paid every month. Isn’t that something? Has any party ever made such an announcement? What do you say, Hujur?’

Maulana Tahirul could not figure out what to say. After all, Rafiq Ali ought to be avenging the cancellation of the entertainment programme. But why was he being so solicitous instead? Yes, if a major political party came out in support of the demands made by their Imams’ Organization, that was a positive development. Tahirul said, ‘All right. Let me talk to the president of our organization. We’ll call a meeting. We can talk again after that.’

‘Certainly. But do remember that we want to see the Left Front government being routed. You are a knowledgeable person, so you know what I’m trying to say. But I really don’t know much about such important matters. I only conveyed what the party leaders asked me to say. If necessary, you can discuss the matter with senior leaders.’

‘Good.’

Rafiq Ali got up. On his way out, he said to Rahmat Bhai, ‘Come and meet me tomorrow. I’ll look into the ration card matter. Bring the papers with you.’

‘But those are already with you. I gave them to you thrice. But I got nothing.’

Rafiq Ali seemed somewhat embarrassed. Or was it that he wasn’t supposed to feel embarrassed? Nonetheless, he said, ‘I know! But please bring them again. Let’s see, the ration card will get done. Don’t worry!’

After everyone left, Rahmat Saheb gazed at Imam Tahirul for a while. He asked him, ‘What’s the matter, Janab?’

‘Didn’t you get it?’

‘No.’

‘Fine. It’s just as well. It’s good to know, but even better not to!’

‘What kind of talk is that, Hujur?’

thirty-two

The weekly wholesale haat for the garments manufactured by the ostagars took place twice a week. On Mondays and Tuesdays. The day before that, Sunday, was the busiest day of the week in the hamlet of the ostagars in Sadnahati. All the garments prepared by the workmen during the week were handed over on that day. They were packed until late at night. No one had a moment to spare. Small owners and workmen all lent a hand; the womenfolk of the house too. Nazir was weary after working all day. He wanted to stretch out on one side of the factory. And as soon as he did that, he was off to a sea beach in an unknown land…

This was the first time Nazir had seen the sea. He gazed at the vast body of water. The billowing waves that looked like a blue-coloured monster crashed down drunkenly at the feet of scantily clad women. They could have been film stars, or they could have been the houris of heaven he had heard about in Hujur’s sermons! Nazir gazed at their gleaming, hairless legs. His gaze steadily moved upwards. Going past the thighs and hips, his gaze got stuck at the soft-as-butter valley above. An electrifying ripple of unbearable love shot from his head to his toes. Nazir wanted very much to be close to the beauties on the beach. He almost got the chance to do that. But someone was preventing him from going near them. Someone who was not to be seen seemed to be blabbering away annoyingly at his ear. The blabbering suddenly turned into a scream, and just then, Nazir woke up, tense with excitement. His dream, while taking his brief Sunday nap, was crushed. It wasn’t exactly a dream, it could be called an indulgent fantasy.

It wasn’t clear whether it was the profanities screamed out by Iqbal Ostagar that had brutally disrupted his beach recreation, or whether it was the roar of the waves on the vast sea that Nazir heard! He sat up with a sense of trepidation. Was it already dawn! Looking around him, he observed that the goods bundles had been packed. Nazir’s job was to carry the bundles on his head and load them on to the vehicle parked on the main road. Goods belonging to several garment factory owners went in the same vehicle. If he didn’t get there early, it was a problem. There would be no end to the ordeal.

Nazir lifted up bundles heavier than himself with ease. He felt like an ant then. It was that one creature in the animal world that could carry things that were over twenty times heavier than its own weight. This work provided Nazir additional income. That’s why he did it, even though it was strenuous. Loading work. Of course, Reshma didn’t know about this loading work that he did. Nor did Nazir want her to know. After all, one’s wife didn’t have to know everything!

Nazir advanced one step at a time, carrying the heavy bundle on his head. The roads in these parts were terrible. They were full of potholes following the rain. Iqbal Ostagar followed behind Nazir. He cautioned him, ‘Watch where you step, Nazir! There’s a puddle ahead!’

Nazir replied, through his laboured breathing, ‘I’m looking. How much more can I look, tell me? The fucking road…’

Iqbal Ostagar agreed with Nazir. Yes, the roads were indeed in a bad shape, one couldn’t help noticing that all day. But the matter appeared urgent to him now. His ire landed on the politicians. He spat out an obscenity and said, ‘Enough! Let the bastards come asking for votes now! I’ll shove the vote up their arses! I won’t spare a single one of them. You just watch!’

‘I’ve been thinking, the murubbi said that I’m supposedly a diehard Congressman. We don’t vote for the CPI(M). Have to vote for Rafiq Ali Sheikh of the Trinamool Congress now. That’s what I did. But see the state of the roads now!’

‘I don’t know any Rafiq or anyone. Get power and then act like a fucking king. The Panchayat elections are coming. Let’s see who stands this time!’

Two ordinary inhabitants of Sadnahati. One was wealthy, the other was poor. It did seem that democracy had made everyone politically aware. But was that true? How was the degree of political awareness of a deprived and neglected populace assessed? Maruf was following them. He was listening to their conversation. He responded to Iqbal Ostagar’s angry tirade. He asked laughingly, ‘Who are you proposing for the election so early in the morning?’

‘Who’s that? Oh! Maruf? Why are you rubbing it in! I vote. I pay donations for the elections. If required, I’ll mass-stamp the ballots and ensure victory. And then, have you seen the state of the road? It’s full of potholes.’

‘Hmm. Did anyone question Rafiq Saheb in these five years? Did anyone tell him about the terrible condition of the roads? When people don’t demand it, why would he bother? But he’s busy with land brokerage now, isn’t it? And it was you who was all for him, weren’t you?’

‘I made a terrible mistake, Maruf. I thought something, but something else happened. Rafiq’s looting the treasury dry, my dear! So I say, you’re making money, do that, but you’ve got to do something for the people too, don’t you?’

Nazir brought down the bundle from his head and stretched himself. After that, looking at Maruf, he said, ‘We’ll make you stand for elections this time, Maruf Bhai. You are the only one I know who is a truly good man.’

Nazir’s words struck Iqbal Ostagar. Although Nazir was not supposed to have any say regarding who would be made to stand for elections, or whose name ought to be proposed. But Iqbal Ostagar had some power. So he said quite enthusiastically, ‘That’s right, Maruf. If you stand for elections, this Iqbal is willing to lay down his life for you! There won’t be a single opponent. Just you see! Will you stand?’

Maruf often received such proposals. So he wasn’t so overwhelmed by their appeal. He laughed. He said, ‘No. I don’t understand anything about politics. It’s not possible for me, Bhai.’

Iqbal Ostagar was about to say something. Maruf interrupted him and asked him to start the vehicle. He added, ‘You’ve got to reach the haat early, or else, if there’s a traffic jam on the way, you’ll be late. Get on!’

Maruf’s mindset was a complex one. No one could gauge that from seeing him. He had a peaceful disposition, but a host of questions agitated his mind all the time. It was as if he was unable to correctly discern the cadence and beat of life’s truth. His empathy for his community, his knowledge and dedication were among the aspects of his character. Because he was born and raised in a Muslim society, he had various kinds of doubts. How the various kinds of divisions in the community, and the conflict over what was shariat and what was not, could come to an end – he thought unceasingly about such matters. And yet he did not want to make things more complicated for himself by getting into the maelstrom of politics.

Most of the traders in Monglahaat in Howrah were Bengali Muslims. The rest had their origins in East Bengal. All of these latter people, who had come from East Pakistan (and later from Bangladesh too), were big traders now. They had sold off their village homesteads and come over to West Bengal. They possessed a lot of money. Thanks to the benefaction of the state government, it didn’t take them long to attain stability. The government was sympathetic to the refugees. But they were not able to integrate themselves completely with West Bengal. One of the reasons for that was the language they spoke. They had not given up their mother tongues. However educated the refugees were, they retained an East Bengali accent in their speech. And because of this, they were easily identifiable as formerly belonging to East Bengal.

Maruf’s shop was in New Monglahaat. Most of the traders there were from East Bengal. As soon as he heard their speech, Maruf remembered the history that he had himself never witnessed. The partition of the country, East Pakistan, the birth of Bangladesh, and so much more. The plight of the minorities was almost the same in all countries and at all times. Maruf had spoken to many people and learnt that most of them had come away to India principally for economic reasons and on account of social values. They couldn’t have engaged in business there, rather, they had to live in constant fear. India was ten times larger than Bangladesh. More developed, and certainly a Hindu majority. So they always had a strong attraction. Maruf had good relations with all of them. They were followers of the Boishnob sect of Hinduism. They greeted one another saying, ‘Jai Radhe!’ Some said, ‘Jai Nitai!’

Parimal Saha was a wise man. His shop was next to Maruf’s. Maruf learnt a lot of things from him. Whenever he had time to spare, he went and sat with Parimal Kaka. He said, ‘Unless Nitai, or Sri Chaitanya Dev were born, there would have been almost no Hindus left among the Bengalis. Do you get that! Everyone would have flocked to embrace Islam and become Muslim. After all, most of the Muslims in Bengal were converts. They converted to escape the curse of caste discrimination and the oppression of the upper castes. But Sri Chaitanya Dev halted that reaction. He put an end to all caste discrimination, and created a space where brahmins and untouchables could sit together. As a result, low-caste Hindus found dignity. At the same time, the tendency to convert also declined. Without faith and love, people can never be free, you know. That’s why he was a Mahaprabhu.’

Hearing Parimal Kaka speaking, Maruf remembered something Zaman Saheb had said in a speech. He had said, ‘At various times, various individuals were promoted in the interest of damage control in Hindu society. For instance, in order to arrest the trend among the newly educated Bengali Hindus to embrace Christianity, Keshub Chandra Sen was brought into the picture.’ The schoolteacher, Zaman Saheb, who was a relative of his, knew much more than Parimal Kaka.

There was one incident that Maruf would never forget. It was a Tuesday. The haat was in ebb. Almost all the shops were devoid of buyers. The toong toong strains of a khanjira from far away came wafting. A Boishnob clad in saffron stopped at Maruf’s shop and stretched out his hand for alms. He had a streak of sandalwood paste on his forehead, a string of tulsi beads on his neck, and songs of Radha–Krishna on his lips. He stood for a moment in front of Maruf’s shop, and then suddenly stopped his singing and sought to move away to another shop. Maruf was taken aback. What was wrong? He called out to him, ‘What happened, Dadu, won’t you collect your alms?’